


Malfoy Manners

by Lizbeth_Loon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizbeth_Loon/pseuds/Lizbeth_Loon
Summary: Draco has been waiting his whole life to go to Hogwarts and uphold the family legacy of House Slytherin. He soon finds that Hogwarts may have been more than he bargained for.





	Malfoy Manners

**Author's Note:**

> bit short, but this is my first fic so be gentle!

“Take these away,” ordered a cool, authoritative voice. There were small, pattering footfalls, then a sudden quiet. Hesitation. A short moment of silence, followed by an irritated, throaty grumble. “Well?” the voice demanded. The pattering reccommenced briefly, stopping short again as a curt, feminine voice cleared her throat. Clearly the small servant wasn’t sure who to obey.

“Certainly you’re not throwing that away with the rest, dear.” Draco stopped midstride and moved quietly toward the door, listening closely to his parents’ conversation. He often eavesdropped when the opportunity presented itself, curious about the slightly softened voice and preserved patience his father used with his wife when they were alone, and perhaps hoping to catch something he could later use to win the man’s pride and affection. He carried on the Malfoy tradition of a cold and stoic appearance, emotions flashing fleetingly in his grey eyes, save for a terrifying temper that Draco did his best to avoid.

“Pardon?” Lucius answered. Another short silence and a sigh, followed by the sharp click of heels across the polished hardwood.

“Draco’s letter,” she said pointedly. Draco’s eyebrows raised. Did she mean his letter from Hogwarts? Lucius huffed in response.

“We’ll hardly be needing it,” he said flippantly. Draco imagined his father straightening in his chair waving off her concern, and thought he could hear the frown on his mother’s face. He nipped his tongue and leaned closer to the door. “I spoke to Igor last week.”

“Karkaroff?” she scoffed. “You mean to send our son to Durmstrang Institute?” Draco’s brow knitted together. He heard the slap of paper and impatiently muttered dismissal of their house elf servant with the discarded post. Evidently a pointedly private conversation. Even better.

“Why not?” Lucius clipped.

“Your friend the headmaster to start,” she clipped back. “And it’s so far away, Lucius.” Draco frowned at the sad lilt to her voice. Boarding school was an expected rite for young wizards and witches, and a welcome one at that. He was quite ready to feed his mind and his magical ability and his ego; to test his abilities and train under masters of their craft. But at the heart of it he was still an eleven year old spoilt only child. He had no desire to be further from his home and his parents - and their influence - than necessary. And he had no desire to hear his mother’s dignified voice marred by sadness.

“I have sway with Igor,” Lucius offered. “You would prefer he mingle with the common filth and study under Dumbledore?” Narcissa clicked her tongue.

“He has good breeding and a fine upbringing. And you have influence at Hogwarts, through the Ministry.”

“Rubbing shoulders with the wrong people -”

“He has us to guide him, Lucius.”

“We can hardly hold his hand through the school year, Narcissa.”

“Not hand holding, dear. Just keeping an eye on his progress. Reminding his professors whose son he is.”

“The curriculum at Durmstrang -”

“It’s too far,” she insisted. “And what of the Slytherin legacy? Don’t you want Draco to share in that?” Draco waited with baited breath for his father’s response. Both his parents were in Slytherin house. Most of their lineage on both sides of the family as well. It was expected. It felt crucial. He smirked when he heard the telltale throaty sigh.

“Very well,” Lucius conceded. “Far be it from me to break from tradition.” Draco released his breath and silently thanked Salazaar. He pictured his mother donning an elegant smile at her victory, and thought he heard her little hum that so often accompanied her physical affection. He counted eight heartbeats before deciding it safe to intrude. When he pushed open the door to the sitting room, he found his mother standing at his father’s side with one hand softly circling on his shoulder. He was sat in one of four high backed plush chairs, illuminated by several enchanted lamps and a single diamond paned window. Her expression warmed at the sight of her son, but his father’s remained measured if not a bit suspicious. She left her husband’s side to pull Draco by the shoulders into a short and dignified embrace, then beckoned him to sit in the chair opposite Lucius.

“Hello mother, father,” Draco nodded respectively as he greeted them before dropping comfortably to his seat.

“Hello darling.” Narcissa snapped her fingers to summon a house elf. The creature appeared out of thin air with a soft crackle and puff of smoke, and looked timidly between the members of the Malfoy family.

“Yes, madam?” it said in its shrill voice.

“Serve the tea,” she commanded with a nod. The elf blinked and nodded fervently before snapping its fingers to disappear into the kitchen. She smiled at Draco. “How is your reading?” she asked.

“It’s alright,” Draco replied with a nod. The elf reentered the room with another soft crackle, this time accompanied by another, and the two dingy creatures directed a floating tea tray and its contents. Draco continued while the elves silently fixed them each a cup and directed a platter of scones and biscuits to the ornately carved table between them. “Almost finished it now. Drags on a bit toward the end, but it’s interesting enough.”

“You can pick out something more exciting when we visit Diagon Alley for your school books,” she promised around sips of tea. They no doubt already had copies of most of the books he would require in their expansive library, but his parents would dare not provide him anything less than the newest and finest editions. Presentation was of utmost importance. Draco smiled at his mother’s suggestion, already considering his options for his next time passing read. Probably something with more action, perhaps about Quidditch.

“Only one?” he mused. Lucius raised an eyebrow and Draco shrugged. “There’s bound to be stacks of new books in Flourish and Blotts. We can afford a few, can’t we?” Lucius’ mouth twitched, perhaps in amusement or perhaps in displeasure. He extended his hand toward the closer elf with a nod in Draco’s direction. It hurried over to take the sealed envelope and pattered back to the Malfoy heir with its delivery, gaze never lifting from the ground and crackling out of sight along with the other when the job was done. Draco smirked with satisfaction and ripped the envelope open. He’d been waiting for this letter as long as he could remember. He was practically buzzing with quiet excitement. Dear Mr Malfoy, We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His eyes darted over the words and his smirk grew into an excited grin. Being expected didn’t make it any less exciting. And with the brief, if secret, threat of Durmstrang it was even more treasured to hold it in his hands. He perused the list of school supplies and grabbed a scone as he considered which subjects he was most interested in and toyed with the thought of sneaking a broom to school with him. His father’s cold voice interrupted his thoughts, causing him to jump.

“Do sit up, Draco,” he snapped. “Eat with a little dignity.” Draco swallowed hard and wiped the crumbs from his mouth, sitting up straight and averting his eyes.

“Yes, Father,” he breathed, trying to keep his expression cool and measured. He couldn’t help peeking at his mother from under his lashes for reassurance. Her lips were pursed and she gave a subtle nod as she took another sip of tea. Draco exhaled and absently mimicked her actions. Within four heartbeats he had relaxed his shoulders and drifted back into his thoughts. He wondered how soon they would do their shopping, and if he would run into any of his associates. Perhaps an odd way for an eleven year old to regard his peers, but he wouldn’t quite call them friends. They were the children of his father’s friends; and Draco wasn’t sure if the term quite fit them either. He didn’t know if his father was capable of having a real connection and attachment to anyone but his mother. Convenient and mutually beneficial alliances may have been a better term for his other relationships. And Draco was ever his father’s son; or at least he tried to be.

* * *

Draco stood perfectly still on the footstool while the slim witch circled around him, placing pins in the long black fabric. All of his formal clothing was fitted and tailored for a perfect fit, so he was quite accustomed to the process. On the inside he was quietly buzzing; he couldn’t wait for his departure to Hogwarts. Madam Malkin escorted another boy onto the footstool beside him then and draped the same long black fabric over him.

“Hello,” Draco greeted the boy with a measured smile. He nodded toward the beginnings of the boy’s robes. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly. Draco nodded knowingly.

“My father’s next door buying my books, and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” he explained. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms,” he decided aloud. “I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?” The boy shook his head.

“No,” he replied. Draco thought for a moment.

“Play Quidditch at all?” he asked.

“No.”

“I do,” Draco volunteered. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree.” Nevermind if he’d heard it while eavesdropping on his parents. He’d been flying since he was five, and practicing Quidditch skills since eight. He was quite comfortable and skilled on a broom, and it was only sensible to expect as much. “Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” the boy said again. 

“Well no one really knows until they get there, do they,” he mused. “But I know I’ll be in Slytherin. All our family have been.” Draco lifted his chin and smiled in a self satisfied way. His aristocratic expression soon softened into one of quiet amusement. “Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” the boy answered. Draco allowed himself a silent chuckle and nodded. Everything he knew about Hufflepuff house was pathetic. All the other houses had their virtues, but Hufflepuff was just a catch all for the leftovers that didn’t fit in anywhere else. The poor sods who had no ambition, no cunning, no courage, no wit, no status. Nothing to offer anyone or themselves. Draco’s train of thought was interrupted by the sight of an impossibly large man with chaotic hair pluming from his head and face, lumbering up to the window with an ice cream in each fist.

“I say, look at that man!” he exclaimed.

“That’s Hagrid,” the boy supplied. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s sort of a servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper.”

“Yes, exactly,” Draco agreed. “I heard he’s a sort of savage. Lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.” Draco nodded matter-of-factly as he repeated his father’s words.

“I think he’s brilliant,” the other boy said coldly. The light flashed off his glasses in a peculiar way. Draco furrowed his brow.

“Do you?” he sneered. He must be joking. Looking between the boy and the grinning oaf through the window for a moment, he realized they must have come together. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?” he asked.

“They’re dead.” The dark haired boy didn’t explain or elaborate. Draco frowned and cocked a curious eyebrow..

“Oh, sorry,” he offered. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean,” the boy supplied in the same short tone. Draco nodded, ignoring his companion’s somewhat perplexing attitude.

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you?” He recalled that Durmstrang didn’t allow any muggle-borns to attend their school. It was a shame the other founders hadn’t agreed with Salazaar Slytherin on such a policy for Hogwarts. “They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine!” What a shock that would be for their kind, small minds and weak spirits and all. “I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your name, anyway?” The boy didn’t answer. They were interrupted by Madam Malkin.

“That’s you done, my dear.” The boy was already stepping down and on his way out. Draco pursed his lips much like his mother.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts I suppose,” he said rolling his eyes. If he hadn’t known the boy was an orphan, he’d wonder what sort of parents raise a child so lacking in social graces. Draco raised his chin once more, waiting impatiently for the witch beside him to finish placing the last few  
pins. He was anxious to continue his shopping, and maybe find someone more suited to conversation.

* * *

Steam drifted over the platform and between the scattered bodies. Draco returned his mother’s dignified smile and kiss on the cheek. They’d arrived early enough that he had plenty of empty compartments to choose from on the train. He met the eyes of a boy he recognized not far away on the platform, and nodded toward the compartment he’d chosen. Satisfied he’d been understood and returning his gaze to his mother, he rushed through a somewhat formal goodbye. She swished her wand to send his trunks flying into the train ahead of him, and offered him one final kiss on the top of his platinum blond head.

“Make us proud, Draco,” she said quietly. “I know you’ll be brilliant.” Draco couldn’t help the wide, confident smile that split his face. Once inside, he gave his mother a brief wave through the window and watched as the boy he’d signaled shuffled up the steps and into his compartment, carrying his large trunk with relative ease. With his looming height and impressive strength, it was only his cherub face that gave him away as a fellow first year. 

“Goyle,” Draco smirked and nodded at him in greeting. Their fathers were well acquainted, and Draco had spent many an afternoon passing time and chasing away boredom by showing off and bossing the other boy around Malfoy Manor.

“Hullo Malfoy,” Goyle replied. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he was useful to have around. Draco draped himself across two seats and pulled a galleon from the pocket of his robes, abscently flipping it over his knuckles. They idly discussed who else they may know on the train and their shared desire to be sorted into Slytherin house. Over the following ten minutes they were joined by their mutual acquaintance, Crabbe, who was as wide as he was tall, and a similarly built girl with short black hair and squinting eyes who introduced herself as Millicent Bulstrode. The train soon left the station, dutifully carrying them away from London and into the Scottish countryside toward Hogwarts. They purchased a few treats from the food trolley, and not long after Draco found himself getting bored. It didn’t take long for him to successfully goad the other three into an arm wrestling competition. It served to entertain him quite well, and he was surprised and impressed when the Bulstrode girl won and claimed her licorice wand prize. Just as he felt the boredom creeping back in, the compartment door slid open to reveal two gossiping girls.

“There you are, Millicent,” greeted the taller of the two, her high ponytail swaying as she bounced on her toes. She briefly regarded the three boys in the compartment before turning her attention back to her friend and resuming her gossip. “Everyone’s talking about it. Did you hear?” She was interrupted by the petite brown haired girl shouldering into view, the upturned nose on her face emphasized by her excited grin.

“Harry Potter is here!” she exclaimed. The first girl laughed and laid a hand on her companion’s shoulder.

“This is Pansy, by the way. We met on the platform.” Draco cocked an eyebrow and sat upright.

“Harry Potter?” he confirmed. The Boy-Who-Lived. Draco had read about him and heard even more from his father and his associates. He’d famously survived the killing curse when he was only an infant and, according to his father, absorbed the Dark Lord’s dark magic and power. He was sure to be a formidable ally. The girl called Pansy regarded him with pink stained cheeks, but otherwise unperturbed.

“We overheard some third years talking about it,” she gushed. “He’s just there, in the third compartment on the right.” She pointed down the corridor and Draco tilted his head as he watched after her arm with fascinated interest. He could see other students huddling together, poking their heads out into the corridor, and whispering excitedly to each other. Every now and again someone else would point at the compartment that supposedly contained the Potter boy. He smirked and looked between Crabbe and Goyle.

“What do you say boys?” he prompted, rising to his feet. “Should we go say hello?”

Draco confidently opened the compartment door, his two large companions standing just behind each of his shoulders and following in step as he entered. The girls lingered in the corridor a few feet behind them, leaning over each other to catch a glimpse and listen in. There were only two boys inside the compartment, so it was easy to gather which one was Potter. Draco raised a curious eyebrow, eyeing the boy’s baggy clothes and disheveled hair. He looked familiar, as though they’d met before, but Draco couldn’t quite think of where or how. He could just barely make out what appeared to be a scar on the boy’s forehead between strands of fringe.

“Is it true?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” he answered, his eyes lingering over Draco’s shoulders.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” he explained with a shrug and a tilt of his head, silently pleased with his intimidating entrance. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” He straightened his back and tried to look as important as his father. If Potter had heard anything of his family, he was sure to be impressed. The other boy in the compartment stifled a laugh with a cough. Draco’s lip curled in frustrated fury, staring daggers at him. “Think my name’s funny do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” He could see his words had the desired effect when the lanky ginger’s ears burned red. He turned his attention back to Harry, his brief humiliation dissipating. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” He extended his hand to shake, positive he’d just made a very prudent ally. He faltered when Harry didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he answered coldly. Draco felt another dizzying wave of humiliation and rage. He clenched his jaw and his fists, a barely there pink tinging his alabaster cheeks. He’d never experienced such flagrant rejection. And for a Weasley? He was practically blind with the fury. Suddenly it dawned on him where he’d seen Harry before.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly, his words dripping venom. “Unless you’re a bit politer, you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them either. Hang around riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

Both boys sprang to their feet in front of him. Draco swallowed his surprise and maintained a cold and measured expression.

“Say that again!” the Weasley demanded. Draco sneered at him, pleased to see his face was almost as red as his hair.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us now?” The Weasley may have been taller, but Draco had Crabbe and Goyle backing him up. It was clear to him who would win in a fight.

“Unless you get out now,” Harry said defiantly. A whisper of doubt flew through Draco, but he chased it away. He needed to regain the upper hand; make a show of force. He needed to walk away from this altercation feeling he had won.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys?” he glanced over his shoulder to glare meaningfully at his two companions. “We’ve eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.” Goyle reached for a pile of chocolate frogs, and Draco smirked triumphantly that the message had been received. Before he could properly relish in the feeling, Goyle let out a loud and horrible yell. He lifted his hand to reveal a disgusting rat hanging from its long teeth, buried deep in his knuckle. Draco’s cool facade crumbled, and he and Crabbe lurched back in unbridled panic and disgust. Filth is right, he thought. Draco shrank toward the exit as the larger boy swung his bloodied hand around in the air until the rat went flying into the window. He didn’t wait to see if his cronies were following before he sprang out into the corridor and took off back toward his own compartment. The look of sheer horror on his face and the frantic speed of his gait must have been enough to silence the girls. They didn’t say a word as they dove out of his way and turned to follow. Not that he would have noticed either way through the fog of his panic.

Draco sat in the corner seat, pressed against the compartment’s window, stewing furiously. He was barely listening to Goyle’s retelling of the events and the girls’ fretting and cursing and questions. Ponytail had run off to fetch someone to heal Goyle’s hand, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care about the other boy’s wound. It was the massive wound to his pride that needed tending to. What would his father say? He had been completely humiliated and rejected, and left the altercation in an undignified stupor with his tail between his legs. Embarrassing for any self respecting Pureblood. But for a Malfoy - Unthinkable. Unacceptable. His silent revery was interrupted by a disembodied voice echoing through the train. ‘We will be arriving at Hogwarts in five minutes time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.’ Draco took a deep, steadying breath. This was not how he intended to begin the year at Hogwarts. He smoothed his robes and lifted his chin in defiant self importance. He would shine where it counted - inside the castle. He would show them. He would show them all.

The first years were separated from the rest, led by the enormous and barely intelligible Hagrid. Draco rolled his eyes every time the oaf spoke. Just wait til father hears they’re letting him lead us around, he thought bitterly. They came up to the lapping shore of a huge lake, lined with small boats. Draco climbed into the bow of the closest boat, resting his hand on the metal rod hanging a lantern in front of him. Crabbe and Goyle followed. The two large boys took up enough of the boat that no one else dared join them. When the rest of the children had clambered into boats and sat waiting, Hagrid stood in his own vessel and called out.

“Forward!” And all the boats were drawn across the water of their own accord, following Hagrid’s. The surface of the water was black as night and smooth as glass. It was mildly unnerving to look at, so Draco kept his eyes forward. Finally, after what felt like forever, Hogwarts castle came into view. It was huge and ancient and magnificent. There were oohs and aahs coming from all around him. All Draco could do was smile.

* * *

Draco flashed a wide smirk when the sorting hat had no more brushed his ears before crying out an unmistakable “SLYTHERIN!” With many of the other first years, it had taken a moment to decide. Not for the Malfoy heir. There was never any question what house he belonged in.  
He sat beside Crabbe and Goyle, across from Bulstrode and her friend with the ponytail; Tracey Davis. Not far away he recognized the Greengrass girl and Theodore Nott, both first years, chatting with an older boy called Graham Montague. He’d been to all three of their homes with his father before. Yes, Slytherin house already felt like his home away from home. It wasn’t long before the other girl from the train, Pansy Parkinson, joined them at the Slytherin table as well. Draco rolled his eyes dramatically and scowled when Potter and the Weasley were both sorted into Gryffindor. Figures, he thought bitterly. Finally, the very last first year sat on the stool. It took the hat a moment to decide, but Draco’s face smoothed when the dark skinned Zabini boy was also sorted into Slytherin. On that high note, the sorting ceremony was over and all four house tables were suddenly overflowing with food. They all tucked in enthusiastically, talking between mouthfuls.

“Guess that settles that, then,” Tracey said with a serious expression. Crabbe’s face twisted in confusion.

“Settles what?” he asked around a mouthful of potatoes.

“The rumors were wrong. Potter isn’t full of dark magic. There’s no way he’d be in Gryffindor if he was.”

“We can’t know that for sure,” offered Millicent. “It could be laying dormant or something.” Tracey laughed.

“So, what? He’ll just wake up one morning possessed and murderous? Pick off the Gryffindors one by one?”

“A girl can dream.”

“Or maybe Gryffindor isn’t all heroes like they’re made out to be,” Goyle muttered bitterly, fingering the bandage on his hand.

“Possessed and murderous?” Crabbe interjected, face still twisted up in confusion.

“Good point,” Pansy nodded. “Dark magic isn’t a body snatching force. It’s a tool. You-Know-Who harnessed it, he wasn’t controlled by it. If Potter really did take it from him when he gave him that scar, that just means he has a powerful tool at his disposal.” A girl seated not far from them with a shining Prefect badge on her robes eyed their group disapprovingly.  
Draco tried to focus on his food and fellows, avoiding looking at the gaunt faced ghost of the Bloody Baron hovering just beside him. He was far less chatty than the other house ghosts, and Draco found himself secretly quite thankful for that fact. The Great Hall hummed with conversation while they ate. When all the food had disappeared, the Headmaster called back their attention and the enormous room was silent once more. Draco watched the ancient man with the whisper of his father’s voice in the back of his head. Albus Dumbledore roused such distaste and animosity in the Malfoy patriarch. It was almost hard to believe this soft, nonsensical, grandfatherly old man was the one to call that to the surface in one so composed and dignified as his father. A chill prickled down his spine as he absorbed the Headmaster’s words.

“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. 

“I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death.”

There were a few scattered chuckles, but they echoed eerily in the midst of the quiet seriousness filling the room. Suddenly Draco felt he understood his father’s reaction to Dumbledore. Only an infuriating madman would keep something that could cause painful death to the children under his care somewhere so easily accessible that it was necessary to warn the students to avoid it. Perhaps Lucius had had a point about Durmstrang afterall. Then, just as quickly as the shroud of doom and gloom had been placed over the Great Hall, the Headmaster lifted it when he smiled and called for them to join him in singing the school song.

The first years gathered around the Prefects as the older students filed out into the corridors, retiring to their respective dormitories. The same Prefect that had shot them a disapproving look before, Gemma Farley she had introduced herself, was now leading Draco and the other new Slytherins down to their dungeon common room. They followed closely behind her, careful not to get separated. The dungeons were dark and damp, spanning out beneath the same Black Lake they had traversed to reach the castle.

“It’s not a terribly complicated route,” Gemma announced to the group. “But it is a secret. No one from another house has stepped foot in the Slytherin dungeon for seven centuries. I expect you all to keep it that way.” Finally, they stopped in front of a rather plain looking stone wall. Gemma turned her back to the wall and scanned the group of first years with her dark eyes.

“Remember this location,” she called. “And remember this password.” Turning her back to them and looking straight into the wall, she called out a single word loud enough for them to hear. “Gormlaith!” The stones immediately began to shift, yielding to her voice and forming a rectangular hole for them to pass through.

Once inside, they gathered by the entrance and took in their surroundings. The common room was bathed in the green light of the Black Lake, the underwater scene shining through the floor to ceiling windows. The stone walls were rough but ornately carved and adorned with glowing lamps and green and silver tapestries of medieval adventurers. Black leather couches were organized around an enormous fireplace with a portrait of a serpent on the mantle. Off to one side there were dark wooden game tables with tall tufted armchairs; to the other a large oval work table surrounded by wooden chairs and flanked on either side by tall cupboards. Gemma stood before them, calling their attention back once more.

“Boys dormitories to the left. Girls dormitories to the right. There is a charmed barrier preventing boys from entering the girls dormitories. Please don’t test it. I’m really not in the mood to visit the infirmary tonight.” She gave them a serious glare before continuing. “Password changes every fortnight, and will be posted to the notice board. I suggest you check it regularly. Your belongings are already in your rooms. Go find your beds and make yourselves at home.” And with that she turned on her heel and disappeared beyond the entrance to the girls dormitories.

Draco lay propped up by pillows on his four poster bed, skimming a Quidditch magazine and half listening to his new roommates. Goyle was recounting the events on the train for the third time. Theodore Nott hung on his every word, not that there were many of them, a morbid grin splitting his face. A rather disinterested looking Blaise Zabini raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Are rats even allowed as pets in the castle?” he interjected. Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“If it was a pet at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if the weasel’s luggage was infested with the things.” He was met with a chorus of snorts and chuckles. He’d heard his father talk about that family many times. All of them cramped into a rickety shack, obsessed with muggle things, with no money and no decorum between them. A Pureblood family in name alone.

“If I ever see another rat,” spat Goyle, clenching his bandaged fist and fingering his knuckles as though relishing the thought of beating something to a pulp. Crabbe nodded with a vacant grin, and Nott snorted and fell back into his own bed.

“You’ll mess your pants?” he offered. Goyle scowled, chucking a polished black shoe at the other boy. Nott countered with a projectile of his own. They threw things at each other for a few minutes before falling, laughing, back into their beds. A comfortable silence settled over the room while the boys prepared for sleep. Draco seethed at the fresh memory of the Weasley beanpole laughing at his name. At least his name was aristocratic and important; and it didn’t conjure up imagery of foul smelling rodents. Who did that prat think he was? Potter was clearly off his rocker if he preferred the company of that lot over someone as distinguished as a Malfoy. It was blanketed in the warmth of that anger that Draco drifted off to sleep and dreamed of bravely blasting swarms of screaming rats out of train windows.


End file.
